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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419335">space is not empty (and so you aren't too)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/psuedopoetic/pseuds/psuedopoetic'>psuedopoetic</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Atlantis, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kaldur'ahm-centric (DCU), Post-Season/Series 02, aka: what happened after season two, kaldur faces his crimes</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-11-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 23:27:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,488</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27419335</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/psuedopoetic/pseuds/psuedopoetic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Kaldur knew that they didn’t have a choice. He didn’t, for that matter. No one did. Or they did, but it wasn’t an option. Still, the look on Orin--his king’s--face struck him right in the chest. It was like he was the one in the shackles, not Kaldur.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Artemis Crock/Wally West (past), Kaldur'ahm/Wyynde (DCU)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>23</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>space is not empty (and so you aren't too)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Kaldur knew that they didn’t have a choice. He didn’t, for that matter. No one did. Or they </span>
  <em>
    <span>did,</span>
  </em>
  <span> but it wasn’t an option. Still, the look on Orin--his </span>
  <em>
    <span>king’s</span>
  </em>
  <span>--face struck him right in the chest. It was like he was the one in the shackles, not Kaldur.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Move along, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Manta</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His king nearly moved forward, like he wanted to intervene, but he didn’t. The guard pushed Kaldur into his cell, where he stood as the door slammed shut. The shackles around his wrist were tight, </span>
  <em>
    <span>suffocating</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and the ones on his ankles were worse. They made him want to kick free, because for the first time in months he was finally not in that horrid suit in the ocean, and yet he couldn’t swim.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last time he’d swam, without the suit’s engineered flippers, was when his Manta suit had been blown off and he was delirious from the heat, half-heartedly kicking away into the depths until he could regain himself enough to return to battle. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wondered if he was faster. He was bulkier than before, more muscle than lean, his swimmer’s build long gone. The body--</span>
  <em>
    <span>his </span>
  </em>
  <span>body--wasn’t the one he remembered. His body was one with the ocean, with strong, smooth hands and tattoos always thrumming with electricity just beneath the skin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But his body--the one he had--wasn’t like that. His shoulders were broader, rippling with every step he took, calloused hands from holding knives for hours on end--and the worst part, right under his rib, a mottled, pink scar from where an Atlantean had driven a jagged blade between his ribs and lifted up.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Remembering that moment made him freeze, almost as if he could </span>
  <em>
    <span>feel</span>
  </em>
  <span> the pain, and then it was over. It didn’t make the flashes of what had happened that day--bombs, fire, burning bright bright bright, the screams, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>blood</span>
  </em>
  <span>--go away, but he could deal with those. Those were nothing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The mind is our key,” he said, softly. “Let it flow through you, through your skin, out into the tide.” A deep breath. “The mind is our key. Let it flow through you, through your skin, out into the tide.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It didn’t have as much of an effect as when he was young. When he was younger he threw himself into his studies, eager to learn more, to do more. But it wasn’t the same--his powers weren’t the same, his mind wasn’t the same, nothing was the same.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Quite literally with the mind part, however. Ever since M’gann had “fried” his brain and pieced it back together all in under a year, he hadn’t felt like himself, whatever that meant. It was like the pieces didn’t go back together the way they were meant to, like something was either missing or too big to fit in the spot it once went. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>He wasn’t sure which was worse.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get your hands off me, you filthy--!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man’s words were cut short as he was shoved into a cell, the one directly beside Kaldur’s. Kaldur didn’t know who the man was, what he looked like, or anything--all he knew was that if he was in the same place Kaldur was, he did something terrible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ll curse you!” the man yelled, banging against the metal bars. “You’ll pay for this, you fish-heads!”</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Fish</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The man was a Purist, the people that believed anything not resembling humans was wrong, that any “unorderly” Atlantean features were disgraceful. That included Kaldur’s gills, things that came from Shayeris, another place the Puritans despised.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaldur had met many Purists during his time with Black Manta. They worked together, conspiring against Atlantis--he had even planted the bomb with one of them--and yet he still couldn’t fully stomach them. They were hateful, vile people, always thinking they were higher than everyone else, that their human features made them more worthy of the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a twisted way of thinking, because some of the bravest people Kaldur had ever met came from Shayeris, the so-called “cesspool” for half-breeds and mutants. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>La’gaan had once said “fuck Purists” in English, but he had hardly known English at the time, and it came out like “hock Purtis.” Still, the thought made him smile slightly, even if La’gaan had tried to kill him only days before.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaldur would try to kill him, too. Except he’d actually succeed, because according to Black Manta, he was the most lethal lieutenant he’d ever had. The only one that was his son, too.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaldur decided it was time to stop thinking, and he instead laid against the warm stone wall, relishing the feeling of saltwater in his gills. He hadn’t felt it like this--submerged, </span>
  <em>
    <span>free</span>
  </em>
  <span>--in so long. He wasn’t sure how much longer he’d get to feel it, and he’d bask in it every moment he got.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t help but think that if his younger self saw him--the one from when he was sixteen and barefoot, a bit reckless with too-strong morals--they’d be ashamed. They’d hate what they would soon become.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Or maybe Kaldur hated what he had become. He wasn’t sure anymore, he only knew that the shackles against his wrists weren’t what he hoped for if he ever came home.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In the morning, a guard came, followed by a servant. He recognized the servant, she was from Shayeris, her skin was blue like coral and her gills were ridged outward. He couldn’t remember her name, but he knew that they were loose friends when they were children.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Be careful,” the guard grunted. “He’s in shackles for a reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know.” She walked in after he unlocked it, thick hair floating in a green halo behind her head. “It’s crab,” she said. “From Shayeris.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their eyes met at that. She remembered him, just as he remembered her. He wasn’t sure if it was out of spite, to make him remember that he’d hurt his people, or to remind him that they were each other’s. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The cell doors slammed shut, and the two moved on to the next cell, where the Purist was. The man yelled, cursed in both English and Atlantean, as if that would get him anywhere. He had lost, he was chained to the wall. Yelling would only get him on the guard’s worser sides, something Kaldur knew was not something to be taken lightly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The man slammed against the bars again and Kaldur bit his tongue, refusing the urge to yell at him. On the ship, he was “top dog,” if he said shut up, they did. Here, however, he had no hold. He was just another prisoner on a long list of criminals.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaldur wasn’t tied to the wall, no doubt by his king’s order, and he had as much movement of his hands as the shackles would allow. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. He wasn’t given utensils, something he’d grown accustomed to on land, far away from Shayeris, and it made him feel alien to pick the crab up with his hands. His father had been adamant they had to eat with utensils, that it was the way the world was, not that “barbaric” way. Kaldur didn’t point out that Atlanteans weren’t the only people to eat like that, either, because he didn’t want to anger his father.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were many things he didn’t understand about his father in the two years he spent with him. For one, his love of African culture. His father said it was to understand his culture--and Kaldur’s, too--to know where they came from. He’d taught him, showed him places in Africa, sculptures and vases and music and books, and Kaldur still couldn’t quite understand. His father wanted to understand where he came from, where his family had come from, and Kaldur couldn’t quite fathom it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Because he had always known where his family came from. Shayeris. That was a fact. Until he found out that Black Manta was his birth father, and suddenly he wasn’t entirely Atlantean at all. It didn’t make sense to him, and even after all that time, he didn’t want to accept he wasn’t who he always thought he was. He didn’t want to believe everyone had lied to him his entire life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaldur stood, taking his plate to the other side of the cell with him. He remembered when he’d sit down with his mother and father--his </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>father, not Black Manta--and eat crab. Sometimes they would invite Tula, especially when they were younger and only had military training. Or Garth, even La’gaan, though he was young and his parents were always busy. His house had always been lively, full of love and warmth. It was such--</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Stupid crab! This--this Shayeris piece of--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Kaldur decided that if that man didn’t stop yelling about Shayeris and “fish-heads,” he’d personally arrange a lack of one for him.</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>so?? this is a mess, i have no idea how long it's gonna be, but yea</p></blockquote></div></div>
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